Did the environment affect me...or not?

Did the environment

I was born into

affect me…or not?

Well, it’s a well-worn cliché to say that everyone is affected (brain-washed, even, if you want to be blunt about it), by the environment they are born into, grow up in. And uniquely so too. And, of course, I was no different. No-one really knows for sure about – has a memory of their earliest, helpless days – just what they’ve been told anecdotally later. In fact, it seems to be debateable when memory-proper kicks in – but, apparently, it’s around the age of seven or so, and comes with the accompanying explanation of ‘childhood amnesia’.

I do know though that my birth (probably via a caesarean), almost killed my mother. That said, I’m not sure who looked after me in those earliest days/weeks while my mother recovered. Whether I stayed in the nursing home with her – probably, or was sent home – unlikely. But, certainly, it wouldn’t have been by my father as, wonderful though he was, he wouldn’t have known one end of a baby from the other! But what I do know is that I still have a large burn mark on my leg that apparently had something to do with an au pair called Angel (you couldn’t make it up, could you – a name like that!} who was brought in to take care of me early on in my life… but then had to be hurriedly dismissed – or so I was later told.

I do know too that my great – almost pathological, fear of dogs was tracked back to the neighbour’s dog jumping up on my pram when I’d been parked outside for fresh air – or so I was told. But, certainly my mother was later instrumental in borrowing a neighbour’s dog – a grey, white and black cocker spaniel called Lindy, to encourage me to get over my fear, but also to try and get me to take exercise ie walking. Never very high on my own to-do list.

In the earliest days too – as I mentioned before, while my mother continued to try and have more babies (well, specifically boy babies!), but continued to have miscarriages, a nanny borrowed from a friend was brought in to take care of me. I absolutely adored ‘Nanny’ and she carried on visiting me and then, in time, my own children, until her death aged 80.

Otherwise, I guess life was pretty calm, pretty good and pretty ordered too, as my father liked to live his life according to strict routines where possible (ie meals at the same time, breakfast jams eaten in strict rotation, ties worn in strict rotation – you get the idea. Guess it would go under the heading of OCD these days) – but, actually, for a child, certainly the sort of child I was, it was quite comforting.

From fairly early days my mother did her best to socialise me – taking me out to tea with friends who had children of a similar age. I’ve often reflected since that this sort of thing was an artificial substitute for brothers and sister which I’d always fancied the idea of.

I was never a very brave child, actually, fearful of most things/most life experiences. Whether I picked this up from my parents’ anxiety for my survival, I’m not sure. But, especially, this was true of my father who was always anxious about any hint of my becoming unwell (may be a trigger from the death of his sister) – as well as banning me from potentially dangerous objects such as swings and bikes. As an adult I have often wondered about fear being a chicken and egg thing, (ie what comes first the fear or being made fearful?) – something for further discussion. Although I was – and remain, actually, happiest in my own company, I did always make good friends easily – and kept them too. I remember my earliest best friend, who I taught to ride a rocking horse (another dangerous object – but I won the battle on that one – may be a portent of my future passion for horses) when we first met. This person has remained a best friend for life and we even became godparents to each other’s children

And then there was school which proved to be a really big hurdle for me. It took practically a whole year of reluctant morning delivery to kindergarten by my mother before I could be persuaded to stop bawling, be prised away from her and peacefully handed over to the beyond patient teacher. Maybe it had to do with those theatrical genes. However, once I’d got over the fears and theatricals, I did go forwards, settle in, make friends and never looked back.

There was the small matter of education at school ie I didn’t seem to want any of it. Whether this had anything to do with my father’s love of teaching, which meant I could read and write, but also recite the Greek alphabet – a special party piece, long before I started school, who can say. But, really, trying to learn just seemed to make me fearful. And, although I did eventually get to grips with English and written subjects – almost a success you could say, anything to do with numbers was – and remains, a no-go area.

I wasn’t sure in all of this story exactly at what point I should bring up the subject of weight – my weight. And, there’s no easy way to negotiate this subject than to say by the time I went to school I was, in a word, fat.

I wasn’t born fat – and was still pretty much OK up to and beyond the age of three or so. But, certainly between then and starting school at five, there was no other way to describe me but fat. And that became my status. Although I think I managed pretty well and learnt to get the first joke in before anyone else did – and to try and deflect the natural slide from humour to hurt. But, actually, it did hurt, however I pretended not to hear or see where the-conversation was heading…but at my expense. It really was a disability in every way – from face-to face every-day chat, from not in my gang, team, getting into pairs etc – to simply worries versus actualities. But I clearly believed I had to be on guard at almost every moment of this early social scene as it felt it could be fraught with unkindness and traps that had to be anticipated, ducked, deflected – and the rest all day, every day. And I’m not exaggerating.

This ‘fat girl’ status had a huge impact on me – and, yes, I may have learnt to turn it to my advantage and get the upper hand, but, really, I could have done without this handicap. And that’s without getting into the subject of sports and sports days…not to mention the ‘boy-girl thing’ later in life – and the rest.

So, yes, I could go on about all this. And may be in another place at a different time, I will – but, for the moment – and although I became fat between the ages of four and five and have remained so (other than a brief slimmer spell in my early twenties} right up to and including now, I don’t really think or believe it had much to do with my role as a parent. Although, maybe I will check this out with my daughter…so watch this space!

Well, school – junior school, all contained within a lovely big old house – and garden, in Sydenham, South London tootled on in quite a genteel way really – nice kids, nice teachers, nice environment – a small serene world.

And, then came the 11-plus – the examining crossroads that blew up each of the individuals of that small serene world, so that rather like Humpty Dumpty (if you remember that nursery rhyme…perhaps I’m showing my age) they were separated into different classes according to whether they were bright, average or dim, and would never be put back together again.

Well, you’ve probably guessed the outcome for me…yes, I was placed in the dimmest class. And, pretty much at that time too – alongside starting at the shock-horror, huge senior school up the road, my parents were summoned to a consultation with the school doctor. The reason? To see if my weight was somehow obstructing my ability to learn – or thrive in any way, in the school environment. Not a good experience – except maybe it was the turning point that finally decided my father to do something about my failure at school.

No doubt, adding to my father’s frustrations about my failure at school, was now also my behaviour at home. For as I dive-bombed the 11plus, I turned from an apparently biddable child, to the teenager from hell. Guess it comes under the heading of adolescence, the arrival of social life and, best of all, the discovery of the opposite sex.

Alongside all of the above – but unbeknown to me, my parents were taking quiet but huge steps to take control. And almost before I was aware of what was happening my father had consulted our local vicar, forged my application/entry exam and got me accepted into a convent boarding school in Berkshire. And there – surprise, surprise because they were so impressed with ‘my’ entry exam, they assumed I was bright and put me with all the other high achievers into the top class.

I guess I was so taken aback by these developments that I forgot to rebel and surprise surprise managed to sustain the position I’d been catapaulted into within the top class. Even passing the English Language O Level I had to take the first term I arrived. This success was followed by my passing all the other O Levels the following year – plus A Levels eventually after that. Only mathematics retained its total mystery to me (even though one of the nuns took a personal interest in my mathematical floundering – and I almost passed on the third attempt), but no I never did get an O Level in Maths.

However, boarding school was the making of me. I learned once again to speak properly (having dropped all my consonants – and especially Hs in a bid to join the cool set), acquired lovely friends and, perhaps, most importantly of all, completely changed my attitude to learning and making a success of life.

With school life coming to a successful conclusion, I was accepted by the Regent Street Polytechnic in London to take a course in Journalism. I had plenty of good friends, was having a vibrant social life which included taking tentative (and sometimes not so tentative) steps into relationships with boys – and was starting to travel further and further abroad with friends.

So, as you can see…as I stepped on board and into adulthood, all looked rosy on just about all the frontiers of my future. So what could possibly go wrong…?!